Please take care of me, David.
I've read all the magazines. My flesh is sad.
Really, my current status is very embarrassing.
But what is for breakfast?
Hominy soaked in maple syrup and squared with butter?
Sweet potato soufflé populated with specks of jalapeno?
In the morning, as I sit by the window absently
inhaling coffee, when I see your hard
eyebrows scrunched together
emerge from the kitchen, tray in your hands,
my shell goes empty. Not broken, not cracked. Empty.
The flesh, flat flower, sheds a tear.
What is it, you ask, is something wrong?
Feed me, David. Then I will know.